Change the Ghost
by TooApatheticToCare
Summary: Harry was not like most children. Part of him was always a little bit afraid of the figure that lurked behind him in the shadows, reaching out with bloodied fingertips to make them one. POSSIBLE H/G IN FUTURE BUT NOT SET IN STONE
1. Prologue

Harry Potter was not like other children. The six year old boy had accepted this as a truth from a very young age. He sat alone on a swing in the park of 'Little Whinging, Surrey', short legs kicking up clouds of dust in the gravel with every downwards swoop, and his shadow standing behind him quietly, waiting for them to finally move on. Eventually, as the street-lamps began to flicker on, and the sun drooped low in the sky, the boy slowed the squeaky swing, dropping to the ground with a dull thump and shrugging his oversized jacket onto is shoulders better before stuffing his hands into his pockets and wandering in the direction of home.

The Dursley Household was not a loving one, at least, not for it's youngest occupant. Stuffed away into the cupboard under the stairs, Harry and his shadow were nothing more then an annoyance to the occupants of Number 4, Privet Drive. He was never directly mistreated, merely pushed aside with a cold indifference and boarder-line fear that had instilled a level on apathy in the young child, who would watch them with detached fascination. Their shadows were different to his own.

Vernon Dursley's shadow couldn't have been much older then the man himself, round and stooped, the figure had the faintest peppering of grey hairs, and tired wrinkles around his eyes and forehead. He may have been slightly thinner, slightly more tired looking, but the similarities were unmistakeable.

Petunia Dursley's shadow, on the other hand, was that of a crone. A wizened figure with sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes, she stooped and creaked as she followed Petunia from room to room, long neck the only resemblance remaining to her young charge. To Harry it always seemed like she was on the verge of a Petunia-esque tut, though she never actually did. The shadows couldn't speak, that would be ludicrous.

Harry found himself most interested in the shadow of his Cousin, Dudley Dursley. The figure that was always one step behind the boy was tall and slightly plump, a head of hair swept to the side revealed a face that never failed to smile in Harry's direction. Harry often pondered at how strange Dudley's shadow was, because Dudley _never_ smiled at him. But this was not what truly fascinated Harry, what intrigued him about his cousin's shadow was not the unfamiliar figure or the smile, but instead, the ruby bloom in his chest. The puncture in the man's chest looked painful, yet he never winced or did more then occasionally straighten the shirt, lining up the fabric with the hole below so the ribcage would glisten white through. He always seemed oddly pleased with the injury, like it was a badge of pride of some sort, or at least that's what it seemed like to Harry. The boy often wondered if his shadow knew Dudley's, as they seemed to be of close ages, but he was left in the dark, because the shadows couldn't see each other, or at least, they never acknowledged each other.

Harry's own shadow was a lot less tolerable to look at, though Harry peered up at it constantly anyway, too young to fear what trundled along behind him wherever he went. His shadow was a mess of a thing, tall and thin, with wild dark hair that was partially glued to his face by blood. Jagged cuts diced across the skin of his arms and legs, and what was left of his shirt was sliced to ribbons, patterns of red decorating the skin underneath. Sometimes, when Harry peered closely, he could almost make out the words carved into the spectre's skin, but as though self conscious, his shadow would draw in on itself, covering up the words with a sad smile and the shake of his head. Harry's shadow had a face from the horror movies Dudley wasn't supposed to watch. One eye was missing from it's socket, and along the cheekbone was a deep carving into the skin, random wavy lines flowing out and twisting up his lips. His other eye always remained closed though he seemed to be able to sense Harry, turning his head to follow the boy has he moved.

Harry often wished for a less intimidating shadow, not that his was the only nightmarish creature around. There was a girl in his school who's shadow didn't even have a face, just a sheet of red that dripped onto a white cotton dress. Many shadows were old, but some were young and didn't have a mark on them at all. Sometimes, Harry wasn't sure who he should look to first, the person, or the shadow standing behind them, which often lead to people looking at him funny as he peered up, perplexed at the figures that only he could see.

No, Harry was not like other children.

His story started on a Wednesday afternoon in the summer, when he was walking home from the park. As he ambled along, he passed a girl with long dark hair and a floral dress. She was several years older then him, and Harry wouldn't have paid her much notice if it wasn't for her shadow. The figure had a look of resignation on a face mottled purple. There was a nasty gash across her cheekbone and one of her feet was bare, the other in a white sneaker stained muddy red. What caught Harry's attention, however, was the shadow's dress, it was identical to that of her persons. Harry looked between the two, fascinated, he had never seen a closer resemblance between a shadow and it's charge before. The girl glanced at him curiously but made no comment as she wandered on, and as she overtook Harry, he heard the tinny wailing of headphones protruding from the girl's ears, a walkman was just sticking out of her satchel. An odd sense of fear trilled through the six year old boy, and, discarding his curfew, he turned left at the next corner, away from his home, following the girl.

He didn't need to diverge from his path for long. The girl, blissfully unaware of the danger that she was in, cut across the main road. Harry had just enough time to sing-song the road safety phrase he had been taught to parrot from a young age; ' _Stop, look and listen.'_ before there was a squealing of breaks and a single short scream.

A motorcyclist had veered around a slow moving car. His movement was legal, the fault, not his own. Harry had plopped himself down as the girl crossed the road, sitting cross legged on the pavement with open mouthed astonishment as she crumpled to the tarmac, like a marionette who's strings had suddenly been cut.

Perhaps a normal child would have cried, or flinched at the blood that pooled it's way across the road. But Harry's eyes were not on the girl, or at least, not for long. Like a cloud of dust, a dark vapour seemed to rise from the girl's body, and the shadow, who was standing alone now, reached out with a bruised hand, purple fingertips brushing the cloud, before, with a sudden inhalation, the two joined. Harry gulped from his spot on the curb, his eyes flickered between the figure lying prone on the floor and the shadow. The girl, who mere moments before had been the epitome of health, had a mottled purple face and a nasty gash on her cheekbone.

The motorcycle driver was on his knees beside her, hands frantically pumping at her chest in some CPR attempt that Harry already knew was futile. The girl was dead. She had become one with her shadow.

Strange as he may be, Harry was an astute six year old. He looked up at the mangled form of his own shadow with bright green eyes slightly shiny.

"Are you me?" he asked. His shadow didn't respond, though it's brow furrowed as though in pain. Harry clambered to his feet, dusting mud off his trousers before he turned and began to walk back home. His shadow teetered along behind him, his usual unnerving presence slightly more nightmarish in the dim street-lamps.

That night, the cupboard under the stairs felt slightly more suffocating then usual. Harry lay back in bed with his eyes clenched shut and the sheets tugged over his head as he breathed deeply.

"I will not become that." he muttered to himself, over and over again until he finally fell asleep. His panic made it hard for him to breathe and his heart slammed like a sledgehammer into his ribcage. Unlike most children, Harry James Potter had no one to comfort him when he woke up, drenched in sweat and sobbing in the early hours.

* * *

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	2. Year One, Part 1

**Year One Part 1**

Platform Nine and three quarters was a watering hole for gorily disfigured shadows. It seemed that almost all of the wizarding world was doomed to die painfully. A dark haired boy who Harry heard introducing himself to another student as 'Dean Thomas', had a shadow who carried his severed head in his hands, lumbering around almost comically. Another girl, who stood talking animatedly with her parents, had a shadow who looked to be in her late teens, with a sown up mouth and a slit throat. There were countless others and Harry felt a wave of sympathy. Detaching himself from the horror show, Harry began to lug his trunk in the direction of the Hogwarts express, when a family came bustling through onto platform. He wouldn't have turned if they weren't so noisy, and yet once he did he couldn't look away.

The family was huge and each had their own gory shadows, but it was the smallest of them that caught his attention. At the end of the red headed procession was a tiny girl clinging to her mothers arm. The family was all talking at once and even if Harry had been trying to he wouldn't have been able to hear what the young girl was saying, but sound had settled to a dull hum in his ears as his eyes glazed past the young girl and focused on her shadow, he glanced at his own for clarity, taking in every cut and blemish on it's skin, before returning his attention to the girl's. They were identical. The same eye missing from the socket, the same cuts on the skin, and though Harry wasn't close enough for a side by side comparison, he could bet that the girl had whatever words were carved across his shadows chest on her own. As these thoughts were crossing his mind, the girl's shadow raised her hand and waved sadly, not at him, but at something behind him. Harry spun in time to see his own shadow raise it's hand in greeting, lips curling upwards in a strange parody of a smile. Harry felt his stomach churn, he'd never seen two shadows acknowledge each other before. Grabbing his trunk, he hastily moved towards the train, eager to move from the strange shadow that so closely resembled his own.

Eventually he found an empty compartment and sunk into a seat by the window with a heavy breath. His shadow sat opposite him, eyes peering out at the platform longingly. Harry shook his head and reached into his trunk, pulling out a book from his Defence Against the Dark Arts course. He furrowed his brow as the words blurred under his vision, thoughts filling his head too much for him to concentrate. Just as he slammed down the book, his compartment door slid open. One of the red heads from the platform stood there awkwardly, behind him an armless shadow leaned against the door frame.

"All the other compartments are full, do you mind if I sit here?" the boy asked, Harry shrugged, kicking his trunk over so that the boy had room to sit down. "Thanks," he said, Harry nodded turning his eyes once again to the window as the train started moving, watching as the small girl ran alongside the train until she fell behind and disappeared into nothing.

"My name's Ron Weasley," said the boy, extending his hand, Harry shook it politely and glanced up at his shadow, the figure smiled slightly at him,

"Harry Potter" he responded, Ron's eyes widened comically,

"Are you _the_ Harry Potter?" he asked incredulously, Harry nodded, "Do you have the… You know… the _scar_?" Harry wondered whether this would be routine in his making friends in the wizarding world as he pushed up his fringe, much to the red head's delight.

"Woah…" Ron gaped, he opened his mouth, likely to ask more questions, when the compartment door slid open, and a blonde boy appeared in the doorway. Harry vaguely remembered him from his shopping excursion in Diagon Alley, but hadn't paid him much attention,

"I heard Harry Potter was in this compartment, is it true?" asked the boy, Harry raised his hand casually, the boy looked at him and nodded, "I see, well I just came to some advice, you'll find some wizarding families are better then others and you don't want to hang out with the wrong sort." the boy cast a disparaging look at Ron, who flushed a deep red, before extending his hand, "the name's Draco Malfoy, pleasure." Harry looked past the boy to his shadow, who sported a gaping hole in his chest. The Shadow glared at Harry with pure dislike and he could see his own shadow tense out of the corner of his eye. A smirk tugged at his lips as he slipped his hand into that of the Malfoy heir,

"Nice to meet you, seems you already know my name." Malfoy nodded, smiling,

"Oh, this is Crabbe and that's Goyle." he added as an afterthought, nodding to the two boys on either side of him. Harry tilted his head to each of them politely and they grunted in response. "Come join us in our compartment Potter, it reeks of filth in here."

Harry nodded, ignoring the churning guilt in his gut as he took in the flushed and embarrassed face of his fellow first year. With his head down he collected his stuff and followed the boy out.

Behind him, his ghost walked with his brow furrowed in confusion. Harry glanced back in time to see this shadow's emotions and his smile grew.

* * *

Sitting in the 'Slytherin' compartment, as Draco had dubbed it, was an interesting experience. There was a sharp juxtaposition between the smiles of the children, and the glares of their shadows. Harry's own shadow stood uncomfortably in the corner, eying the children suspiciously. Harry slid into a free seat with a smirk, lounging with the casual attitude he had seen mirrored in the other children. He learnt their names were Blaise, Pansy, Daphne, Millicent and Theodore, and saw that their shadows were either old and withered, or oddly unmarked and young. Either way, their fates seemed more generous then his own, and the disgruntled reactions of all of the shadows clued him into the fact he wasn't doing what he ought to be doing.

Harry spoke with them the entire train ride, picking up on every tip bit that they had about the wizarding world and attempting to mirror their cool confidence.

Upon reaching Hogwarts he was promptly sorted into Slytherin.


End file.
